Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  “Do you ever speak to Edward?” I asked.

  “I ran into him and Margaret—is that her name?”

  “Something like that,” I replied.

  “We crossed paths at a fund-raiser a few years ago and spoke briefly. There’s a remarkable symmetry to the whole affair.”

  “You have no idea,” I replied. “Let me ask you a question: Do you think Edward had his new wife sign a prenup?”

  “I’d bet my vacation home on it.”

  “Thank you, Clayton. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not who you say you are, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Do you want to tell me what this is all about? I have to admit that my curiosity is getting the better of me.”

  “Let’s just say,” I replied, “that the pattern continues.”

  UNKNOWN CALLER

  While I’m on the subject of pretext calls, I should mention that just a few days later I discovered that my repeat wrong number was just a low-rent pretext call.

  “May I speak with Emily Proctor?” the voice on the line said.

  The voice was different, but the pattern remained the same. I’d decided to try a different tack to throw the caller off her game.

  “No, Emily is not here. Can I take a message?” I replied.

  “Oh . . . when do you expect her?”

  “She’s vacationing in the South of France. I don’t think she’ll be back for another two weeks.”

  “I thought I was dialing her cell phone.”

  “You are. But she left it with me in her absence. She doesn’t have an international plan, so there was no point in wasting the minutes.”

  “I see. How long has Emily been gone?”

  “I don’t keep track of that kind of information.”

  “Can you ballpark it?”

  “Where did that phrase originate from?”

  “I have no idea,” the caller replied. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Wait, you never told me your name,” I said.

  “Jane.”

  “Jane what?”

  “Jane Anderson.”

  “Very good,” I replied. “Well, Jane, unless you plan on providing me with any more personal data—a phone number would be fantastic—I think I’m going to say good-bye.”

  “Are you the only person who has been using Emily’s cell phone in her absence?”

  “Good-bye, Jane.”

  When I disconnected the phone call with “Jane,” all previous calls began to form into a plausible scenario that I could work with. My best guess was that someone had reviewed cell phone records and noted phone calls placed either to or from my number and wanted to know who their employee, relative, or, most likely, spouse was calling. I considered all the current clients who were likely to have my cell number on speed dial. Since Walter was my most frequent caller, I decided to drop by his house.

  “Walter, how long have you and your wife been separated?”

  “Six months. Why do you ask?”

  “Are you still on the same cell phone plan?”

  “Yes. The cancellation fee was too high.”

  “So who gets your phone bills?”

  “I pay all of the bills.”

  “But she would have access to the phone records online, correct?”

  “I suppose so,” Walter replied.

  “Who wanted the divorce?”

  “Who do you think?” Walter asked.

  I could tell this line of conversation wasn’t good for Walter’s mental health. He began raking his rug, removing my sock prints that led from the front door to the couch.

  “Did you divorce on good terms?”

  “It was amicable,” he said. “Why all the questions, Isabel?”

  “Maybe she has some regrets and is looking for a way to get you back.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I think I’d like to interview her.”

  “No. No. That’s not a good idea,” Walter said.

  “I don’t see the harm in having a little chat.”

  “No,” Walter said. “It’s someone else. I know it. Sasha has moved on.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m positive.”

  I wasn’t totally buying it, but I had to consider a few more leads before I made any further accusations.

  “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” Walter asked.

  “I have to go. What are you doing this weekend?” I asked.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “Are you going to leave your house?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “We can’t catch your intruder unless you’re gone.”

  “You make a good point.”

  “Promise me you’ll go out, Walter.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

  I like to believe in my clients’ instincts, but generally they hire us because they’re unsure of those instincts. So when Walter batted aside the idea that his wife had any involvement in the mysterious happenings in his apartment or the unusual interruptions on my cell phone, I decided to trust my own instincts, not his.

  It took all of five minutes to track down the phone number and address of the former Mrs. Perkins. I phoned Sasha from my burner cell phone to see whether I recognized her voice. The phone rang five times and went directly to an automated voice mail. Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside her door. I phoned her cell again from my regular number—still no answer. Then I buzzed her door. I could see a curtain twitch two floors up. I phoned again and buzzed simultaneously.

  Finally she picked up.

  “Sasha, come downstairs. We need to talk.”

  Sasha was younger and more attractive than I expected. She was also far less buttoned-up than I pictured. Her shirt possessed a few wrinkles (the overall look would have appeared starched and ironed on me, but for Walter’s sensibilities, it bordered on disheveled); a strand of wavy hair hung loose from her bun and her shoes were scuffed the way shoes often are. “Hello,” was all Sasha said as I took her inventory.

  “Hello,” I replied, trying to sound friendly and unthreatening. I don’t often go for that angle, and I can’t say that it worked. I held up the phone and said, “How did you get my number?”

  Sasha looked down at her scuffed shoes.

  “How about I answer for you?” I suggested. “You were looking through your ex-husband’s phone bills and came across a number you didn’t recognize. You wondered how a man with so many significant challenges could have met someone so quickly. And so you called to see whether your ex was in a new relationship. Only the woman answering the phone—that would be me—wouldn’t give you any information. Have I got that part correct?”

  Sasha nodded her head.

  “Before I continue, let me put your mind at ease. I am not involved with Walter romantically. I work for him. At first, all I did was check on the apartment and make sure toasters were unplugged, faucets turned off, blinds closed or open—however they’re supposed to be—and that no electrical fires or biblical floods had hit his apartment. It was an easy job. At least it used to be.”

  Sasha stared down at her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to know who you were.”

  “Do you want him back? Is that why you did it?”

  “I thought I did. But then we met for coffee last week and I realized that I didn’t.”

  “I’m going to have him change the locks.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sasha replied. “But if it gives him closure.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “If you think that’s necessary.”

  “I do.”

  THE GRAMMY SPELLMAN EFFECT

  Grammy Spellman had been in the house less than a week, but I could already see my mother start to unravel. No matter how many tactics she used to evade
her in-law, she still had a day job and Grammy was always no more than one room away, clutching her handbag around the clock, not unlike the way Sydney accessorizes with her blanket in a choke hold. At first when Grammy roamed the house with her stressed leather bag attached to her chest, my father was merely confused.

  “Are you going somewhere?” he would ask.

  To cover, Grammy would pretend that she needed a mint or lipstick at a moment’s notice and reach into her bag for one or the other. She always showed extra teeth1 and Emily Post manners when D was in the room, but no one was buying it. When D ran out to the grocery store, my mother tried to subtly intervene. “Ruth, why don’t you keep your handbag in your room? I promise it’s safe there.”

  “You never know when you might need something,” Grammy replied.

  I went for the less subtle approach.

  “Grammy, Demetrius used to steal televisions, not handbags. We could get you one of those radio-sized TVs if you want to carry that around with you.”

  Grammy gave me a sharp, unpleasant stare.

  “Mom, D’s part of the family. You need to relax around him,” Dad said, more sternly this time.

  “I’m sure he’s perfectly rehabilitated,” Grammy replied. “But you never know.”

  My mother has this muscle in her neck that twitches when she’s stanching anger.

  “Ruth,” Mom said, “put the freakin’ handbag in your room and leave it there, or so help me God, I will steal it from you and use your checkbook to make outrageous donations to the NAACP.”2

  “Albert, are you going to let her talk to me that way?”

  Dad casually shrugged his shoulders. “She does what she wants, Mom. That’s how it works these days. Now, put your purse in your room and keep it there.”

  Grammy managed to follow Dad’s orders while maintaining her own stand. She and her purse stayed in her room for the rest of the day.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon when I called for an emergency company meeting, conveniently excluding Rae. I asked for my sister’s latest surveillance report on Vivien Blake and then gave a ten-minute presentation, including photographs and diagrams (visual aids really do energize a personal takedown) illustrating the discrepancies, the outright lies, and, finally, the indisputable evidence of direct communication between investigator and subject.

  “What on earth is she up to?” Mom asked.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to handle it,” I said. “Take her off the case and I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Dad had to think about it for a second. Our caseload had never been so rife with conflicts of interest. “Fine,” Dad said. “But you need to find out immediately what she’s up to.”

  “Excuse me,” Demetrius said, “but wouldn’t it be faster to sit her down and ask her?”

  “We don’t do that in this house,” I said.

  “If we ask her,” Dad replied, “then she might tip off Vivien and then Vivien might confront her parents and it could look bad. We need to figure out what’s going on first.”

  “I have one more request,” I said. “I need you to punish Rae. I can’t watch her get away with this anymore.”

  “What do you have in mind?” my mother asked.

  “Use your imagination,” I replied.

  Mom paced back and forth in the living room for the next half hour and then returned to the office, tossed a set of car keys at me, and said, “Repo man, get to work.”

  You don’t drive much in San Francisco unless you have to. Once you find a parking space you keep your car there until circumstances warrant driving. Rae didn’t notice her car was missing until two days later, when she had to move it for street cleaning. She called the house in a panic.

  “My car was stolen,” she said.

  “Your car is just fine,” Dad replied.

  “What?” Rae asked.

  By the way, she was on speaker because we all needed an afternoon pick-me-up.

  “I’m borrowing it for a while,” Dad said.

  “But you have a car,” Rae said.

  “I feel like having two cars for a while,” said Dad.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Rae replied. “Why do you need two cars?”

  “I don’t need two,” my father replied. “I just want two.”

  “Are you having another REAFO?”3 Rae asked.

  THE SCARLET B

  Friday night, when I returned home, I found Gerty sitting on the couch watching the news. She had a glass of bourbon in front of her and refused to make eye contact. She picked up the bottle and poured me four fingers in silence. I sat down next to her.

  We both pretended to be engrossed in the latest developments of the saga of the tree sitters. Hundred-year-old oak trees would be razed to build an athletic center on the Berkeley campus. One of the sitters had managed to stay up for a full week. He had a pulley and a bucket to transport nourishment and the by-product thereof. I’m assuming different buckets. I like trees as much as anyone, maybe more than a few, but it’s hard to imagine caring for a small patch of high-rise vegetation with this level of vigor. Then again, on Arbor Day fifteen years ago Petra, my partner in crime for many years, and I spent eight hours overnight turning Mrs. Chandler’s front bush into a topiary that looked not unlike a hand giving you the finger. So who am I to judge? I figured Gerty was too ashamed to speak, so I muted the sound and spoke first. “I didn’t tell him about . . . you know.” I couldn’t even say his name.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’ll do it.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “He’ll find out eventually.”

  “Not necessarily. You’d be surprised how many secrets can remain buried.”

  “I’m moving in with him,” Gerty said.

  “With who?” I asked. It still seemed impossible.

  “With Bernie.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “I can,” she replied.

  “It will never work. It’s Bernie. This is just a rebound relationship. It’ll be over in no time flat. Might as well flatten it right now and save yourself the heartache.”

  “He’s a good man, Isabel.”

  Sigh. Was this the time to tell her otherwise?

  “I was thinking about moving out here anyway to be closer to Henry. If it doesn’t work out with Bernie, I’ll find an apartment,” she said.

  I cradled my head in my hands, grasping for any strategy to derail this insane turn of events.

  “There’s no saving your marriage?” I asked.

  “Alan and I have been separated for months. We’ve been living different lives for years.”

  “And Henry never knew?”

  “We were in a bit of a standoff. Neither of us wanted to be the messenger.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, that’s my story,” Gerty said. “What’s yours?”

  “Huh?”

  “You and Henry have to have an honest conversation one of these days.”

  “I know,” I replied.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I know how it’s going to end.”

  Just then Henry walked through the front door. It wasn’t clear to me what my role in all this should be. Was I supposed to stay and help make peace or give them their privacy? I’ve always been better at leaving, so I did.

  “I’ll let you two be alone,” I said, collecting my coat and bag.

  Henry nodded, barely making eye contact.

  I sat in my car for ten minutes, still clinging to the idea that this situation could be resolved. Then it got cold and I realized I had no place to go. If Grammy Spellman were out of the picture I would have dropped by my parents’ house, but I was going to avoid contact as much as possible. Once Grammy got her claws in you, it was kind of hard to get them out.

  And so I made one final, futile, and frankly pathetic attempt to solve the problem.

  I knocked on his door. He opened it just a crac
k and looked me up and down as if I were a genuine physical threat. I did enjoy the unease I saw in his eyes.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Bernie said, raising his hands, as if this were a holdup.

  “Just let me in.”

  Bernie backed away from the door and silently invited me in. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, uncapped the bottle, and passed it to me.

  “I got some potato chips and some Cheez Doodles,” he said.

  “Not hungry,” I replied.

  “You don’t have to be hungry for Cheez Doodles,” Bernie replied.

  “What does she see in you?” I asked.

  “I’m a nice guy,” Bernie said with an edge in his voice I don’t think I’d ever heard. “And I know how to treat a lady. I know what they need.”

  “Okay. Change. Of. Subject,” I said.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out my checkbook. I had two thousand four hundred and twenty-five dollars in savings. I clicked my ballpoint pen a few times to get his attention.

  “What’ll it take?” I asked.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said.

  “Deadly,” I replied.

  “Put your checkbook away,” Bernie said, taking a slug of his beer.

  “Everybody has a price,” I replied.

  “You might be right, Iz. But unless you’ve just won the lottery, you’re not going to be able to cover this bribe.”

  “But you could be bought, right?”